Greenwood's Secret

The road to Greenwood winds through dense forest, the canopy overhead filtering the afternoon sunlight into shifting patterns across the asphalt. I lean into the curve, feeling the familiar rumble of my motorcycle between my thighs, the wind tugging at the loose strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail. Behind me, Janice's old sedan...

The road to Greenwood winds through dense forest, the canopy overhead filtering the afternoon sunlight into shifting patterns across the asphalt. I lean into the curve, feeling the familiar rumble of my motorcycle between my thighs, the wind tugging at the loose strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail. Behind me, Janice's old sedan keeps pace, carrying May and her twin sister Sarah. I catch a glimpse of May in the passenger seat, her nose buried in a weathered notebook filled with her cramped handwriting. She's been collecting stories about this town for months now—whispers on paranormal forums, archived newspaper clippings, secondhand accounts from people who claim to have passed through. I downshift as we approach the town limits, and the first thing I notice is the silence. Not an eerie silence, exactly, but a deep, settled quiet that feels almost intentional. The kind of quiet that belongs to places where nothing much ever happens. The main street stretches out before us, lined with old brick buildings painted in soft pastels. A bakery with a pink awning. A bookstore with a cat sleeping in the window. A small café where two women sit at a table, laughing over cups of tea. They look up as I roll past, and one of them waves. I wave back, because it feels rude not to. At the center of town, the road opens into a small square, and there she is—the statue. A pregnant woman, carved from pale stone, her hands resting on her swollen belly, her face tilted upward with an expression of peaceful contentment. She stands on a pedestal surrounded by flowers, fresh ones, arranged carefully by someone who takes pride in the upkeep. I pull over and kill the engine, the sudden quiet pressing in around me. Janice parks behind me, and the three of them climb out of the car, stretching and groaning after the long drive. "Okay," May says, flipping through her notebook as she walks toward me. "So the main myths are pretty consistent. Women who stay here for more than a few days start experiencing... well, unusual fertility. There are stories about visitors who arrived barren and left pregnant. About couples who tried for years and conceived after a weekend visit." Sarah snorts, leaning against the hood of the car. "Sounds like a tourist trap to me. 'Come to Greenwood, get knocked up.' Very marketable." May ignores her, her green eyes bright with that focused intensity she gets when she's on the trail of something real. "But there's more. Some accounts mention dreams. Vivid dreams. And a feeling of being watched, even when you're alone." I look past her, past the statue, past the quiet streets and the smiling women. The town is beautiful, peaceful, almost too perfect. And something about that perfection makes my skin prickle. I turn back to my friends, and I notice, for the first time, how many women are watching us from windows and doorways.

The weight of all those watching eyes settles on my shoulders as May closes her notebook. I force myself to look away from the windows, from the women who stand motionless behind glass, their hands resting on their stomachs. "I'm hungry," Janice announces, breaking the spell. She's already shouldering her camera bag, her red hair catchin...

The weight of all those watching eyes settles on my shoulders as May closes her notebook. I force myself to look away from the windows, from the women who stand motionless behind glass, their hands resting on their stomachs. "I'm hungry," Janice announces, breaking the spell. She's already shouldering her camera bag, her red hair catching the afternoon light. "All that driving worked up an appetite. That café we passed looked cute." "Actually," May says, pointing past the statue, "there's a diner just around the corner. The Greenwood Grill. I read about it online—apparently it's the town's main gathering spot." We leave our vehicles parked in the square and walk, our footsteps echoing against the brick buildings. The diner is exactly what you'd expect from a small town: chrome trim, red vinyl booths, a long counter with swivel stools, and the smell of coffee and frying bacon hanging in the air. A bell jingles as I push open the door. The waitress looks up from the counter, and I notice immediately—the gentle swell of her belly beneath her apron, the way she rests her hand on it as she reaches for menus. She's maybe six months along, give or take. She smiles at us, warm and genuine. "Four for lunch?" she asks, already leading us toward a booth by the window. I slide in across from Janice, and as I settle, I let my gaze drift around the room. A woman in a booth near the back, cradling a cup of tea, her belly round beneath a floral dress. Another at the counter, laughing at something the cook says, one hand resting on her stomach. A young woman in a corner booth, maybe early twenties, reading a book, her pregnancy less advanced but still visible. I count five. Five pregnant women in a diner that can't hold more than thirty people. The waitress takes our orders—burgers and fries, mostly, with a salad for Sarah because she's watching her figure—and disappears into the kitchen. When she returns with our drinks, May leans forward, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone she uses when she's about to share something good. "So," May says, pulling out her notebook, "the statue. It's not just a decoration. The locals call her the Mother of Greenwood. According to the stories I've collected, she's been here since the town was founded, over a hundred years ago." Janice sips her soda, her eyes fixed on May. "And?" "And the myth goes that she grants blessings. Fertility blessings. Women who touch her belly, who leave offerings at her feet, who spend a night in the town under the full moon..." May pauses for effect. "They say she answers." Sarah rolls her eyes, but she's listening. We all are. "The dreams are part of it too," May continues. "Almost every account mentions dreams. Vivid, emotional dreams. Some women describe them as visions. Others say they feel the statue calling to them, even in their sleep." The waitress arrives with our food, setting down plates with practiced ease. She catches the tail end of May's sentence and smiles, a knowing smile that sends a chill down my spine. "First time visitors?" she asks. I nod, not trusting my voice. She pats my shoulder, her hand warm and heavy. "Enjoy your stay, hon. Greenwood has a way of growing on people."

"Well, at least the town folk are friendly," Sarah says, reaching for a fry from her salad plate. "If a little creepy," Janice adds, her green eyes darting toward the window. "Did you notice? Everyone's watching us." I follow her gaze. A woman across the street has stopped mid-stride, her hand resting on her pregnant belly, her eyes fix...

"Well, at least the town folk are friendly," Sarah says, reaching for a fry from her salad plate. "If a little creepy," Janice adds, her green eyes darting toward the window. "Did you notice? Everyone's watching us." I follow her gaze. A woman across the street has stopped mid-stride, her hand resting on her pregnant belly, her eyes fixed on the diner's window. When she sees me looking, she doesn't look away. She just smiles. "We're out-of-towners, Janice," I say, tearing my gaze from the window. "That's probably all it is." Janice nods, but she doesn't look convinced. I turn to May, who's busy scribbling something in her notebook. "So," I say, "what are we talking about here, May? A ghost that's horny, or what?" May looks up, her green eyes bright with amusement. "I guess we'll see tonight. There's a full moon out." "As long as there are no werewolves, I'm in," Sarah says, popping another fry into her mouth. Janice pats her camera bag. "I got my camera ready." "Yeah, count me in too," I say. "But let's get a hotel first and get some rest. I've been on that bike for hours, and my ass is numb." The others agree, and I flag down the waitress. She comes over with the check, and I pull out my wallet. "Excuse me," I say as I hand her the cash. "Is there a hotel around here?" She nods, tucking the bills into her apron pocket. "Yes, up the road to your left. Can't miss it. Ask for Lisa—she's the owner. She'll take good care of you." "Thanks." I pause, glancing at her belly. "And congratulations. When are you due?" Her hand moves to her stomach, a gesture that seems almost unconscious. "Four months," she says, and something flickers in her eyes. Something I can't quite read. I smile and slide out of the booth. The others follow, gathering their bags and jackets. As we push through the diner's door, the bell jingles overhead, and I feel the weight of eyes on my back—the waitress, the women at the counter, the woman reading in the corner. All watching. We walk in the direction the waitress pointed, our footsteps echoing against the brick buildings. The afternoon sun is warm, but a cool breeze carries the scent of pine and earth from the surrounding woods. The town feels quieter now, as if the lunch hour has passed and everyone has retreated indoors. The hotel is exactly where she said it would be—a two-story building with a wooden sign that reads "Greenwood Inn" in faded gold letters. Flower boxes line the windows, bursting with red blooms, and a porch swing creaks gently in the breeze. I push open the front door, and a small bell chimes overhead. A woman stands behind the front desk, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun, her belly round and full beneath a simple blouse. She looks up as we enter, and her smile is warm, welcoming. "Welcome to the Greenwood Inn," she says. "I'm Lisa. How can I help you?"